


Out Of Your League

by Miso



Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: (hence the relationship tag), (i mean they're not Officially Banging but earl sure as fuck wishes they were), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Crush, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Earl has some very private thoughts about his new co-anchor. VERY private.





	Out Of Your League

**Author's Note:**

> W E L P. i kind of love longing sub earl with a big doofy crush so i started writing it and whoops my hand slipped. set in october 1976 when earl and floyd had been working together for a month tops.

You know you shouldn't like him. He's a dickhead. He's awful to you. Floyd Isaac Robertson is not someone you should be crushing on the way you are, but goddammit, how are you supposed to help it? He's tall and strong and intense and focused and holy fucking shit why is he so goddamned hot?!

You curse Caballero's name under your breath as you watch him. Fuck Caballero for hiring such a hot piece to work with you, the eternal bachelor who can't keep a boyfriend for more than three months tops. The day you were introduced is on replay in your mind again. He shook your hand and gave you a half-sincere, crooked smile. His lips smiled, but his eyes told a different story. You're beneath him. He's better than you and he knows it. He still knows it. His long and graceful fingers dance across the typewriter's keyboard, his tongue occasionally poking out just slightly as he focuses particularly hard on whatever it is he's writing. He narrows his eyes, cocks an eyebrow, runs a hand through his hair. You can only imagine how soft it must be. How it would feel between your fingers as he kissed down your body and made you his with bite marks and hickeys and scratches.

You bite your lip as a surge of heat runs through your body. Goddammit. You're nearly 30 and you're still getting boners over mildly dirty thoughts about someone you think is cute? _Good job, Camembert,_ you think to yourself. Then again... he's just so fucking hot. It's not like he leapt from a pedestal in an ancient Greek wing of a museum, like he could have been carved out of precious marble with naught but a fig leaf covering his nether regions, but Jesus Christ.

You've seen him around town on your days off. You usually sleep in on weekends, but the few times you don't you occasionally catch glimpses of him in his t-shirts and leather jacket and jeans and sunglasses like he knows how fucking gorgeous he is and doesn't even care. Every other Saturday during the warmer months you help your parents with their yard work, cutting the grass and weeding the flower beds, and sometimes when you're in the middle of mowing your dad's beloved lawn in exchange for ten dollars and breakfast your stupid sexy co-anchor will come jogging down the road. You don't think he recognizes you with a hat on and your glasses tucked into the collar of your sweaty t-shirt, because he never acknowledges you, but it'd be awful hard for you not to acknowledge him.

You think he's gorgeous sitting in an air-conditioned studio in a suit, but you like the one you see on Saturday mornings better. He wears these tight tank tops or t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants on chillier mornings or, if you're lucky and it's warm out, shorts, and while you have no clue where he lives, by the time he gets to your parents' neighborhood he's always soaked in sweat and his shirt's clinging to his torso, giving you a pretty nice look at his body. He's not a muscle-bound hunk, but he's got some definition to him, more than you would think someone his age would. The view of him leaving is pretty nice, with his muscular back and- yes, you have to admit it- cute butt in your sights, but you kinda like the view from the front better.

If sweatpants leave little to the imagination, the shorts leave even less. You've never considered yourself part of the "bigger is better" camp. Maybe for him, though, you'd make an exception. It's impressive if he's a shower and mind-blowing if he's a grower. Sometimes he'll stop and rest for a minute, or stretch, or take a drink of water. When he does that, when sweat runs in rivulets down his body and drips off his nose and elbows, sometimes you swear you can see the ridge of the head pressed against the thin fabric, and it's all you can do to stay focused on cutting the grass and not abandoning your post and begging him to drag you behind a tree and let you do... what? Suck him off, let him fuck you, touch him, what? You don't even know what you'd do given the chance, but sometimes you swear as he passes by you can almost smell his musk and it makes your knees weak, like you're a mare in heat passed by a wild stallion. Fuck. 

Just thinking about it is enough to make you hard. You really need to stop wearing such tight pants if you're going to be working with him for a while, you surmise. You lick your lips and take a slow, shaky breath and try to turn your thoughts to baseball. That was what all of your friends said they did if they needed to turn down a little. _He's probably not even gay. Even if he is, there's no way someone like him would be into someone like you. Get over yourself, Earl,_ you chide yourself. You're able to focus on typing for a little bit, before you glance over at him again, cursing yourself. Can't keep your eyes off of him for two minutes.

He's chewing the end of his pencil and staring thoughtfully at whatever it is he's typing. His fingers idly drum beside him and after a moment of contemplation he goes back to work, tapping away at the keys. Your gaze goes to his lips and your mind wanders again. How would those lips feel nibbling and sucking along the length of your throat, leaving bruises where he would pause and suck harder to make sure he left a mark? What about kissing down your chest and stomach, pausing to tease your nipples, lapping at them until they were like pebbles? Those lips, locked around your dick... no, your lips around his. Him, he'd be snarling and moaning as you sucked him off, licked around the head of his beautiful, huge cock. He's probably cut, you think, and you briefly daydream about taking him no further than the scar, teasing the head gently, and he'd push you down to take him deeper. The head of his cock would slide past your soft palate and into your throat and you'd be left with your nose pressed against his pubic bone, shoved into the patch of hair you're sure he has, finally up close and personal with that fucking smell of his.

Your cock is starting to actually hurt and you feel like you should really duck somewhere more private and fix the situation, but like hell you're moving from your desk right now. Not when your dick is essentially a rock in the front of your pants and you're half-sure you've left a wet spot on them. You simply cross your ankles and try to get comfortable at your desk, praying you can stop drooling over him long enough to do the evening news.

You curse yourself for being so naive at 6 pm when the evening news begins. The news desk is even worse. Caballero says the studio can't afford a bigger, better desk for the two of you, so you're practically atop each other. He's warm and smells like cologne and a faint hint of liquor, like maybe he partied a little too hard last night. Your mind wanders to thoughts of a kiss tasting of bitter whiskey and coffee, his tongue in your mouth and his hand down your pants, and he has to shove you on the shoulder to get your attention.

You can barely spit out your items. He's fucking torturous. Those eyes of his are locked on you. They're hazel, but in the right light they look golden, or even emerald, and you're never sure how to react when he looks at you like that. All you can imagine is the hazel almost completely out of his eyes, just a thin ring of green-brown-gold around a sea of black for you, staring down at you with a hand ever-so-slightly squeezing your throat and that fucking gigantic cock of his inside you, your nails in his shoulders and back as he whispers absolutely filthy things into your ear in that gravelly, commanding voice, things about how you belong to him and how he'll fuck you over the desk at work one day and what a good boy you are for laying back and letting him do the work because fuck knows you're probably not competent enough to do it yourself. The thought of him saying such awful, humiliating things to you shouldn't turn you on, but it does. Even him telling you you're a complete moron for bungling a news item sends a little shiver down your spine.

The end of the news is an absolute blessing. You bolt from the set, leaving a mildly confused Floyd behind you, and haul ass to your car as soon as you clock out. Fuck whatever Caballero wanted you to do, you have to get out of there. Being around him much longer is gonna kill you. You slam the front door behind you as you get home, startling your cat, who gives you a dirty look and skulks away. You don't care if you pissed him off or not, you have much more pressing matters on your mind, and it briefly crosses your consciousness that you may have shown the tent in your pants to half of Melonville earlier. Fuck it. You don't even care anymore.

You shut the door to your bedroom and slump against it with a sigh, shedding your jacket and bow tie as soon as you've collected yourself enough to stand up straight. You unbutton your shirt with unsteady fingers and slip it off your shoulders, kicking your shoes and socks off before unbuckling your belt. You deliberately try to be unsteady, like an inexperienced lover, but the idea of Floyd not knowing what he's doing is unthinkable to you. His hands would be stable and rough-but-gentle as he stripped you. You almost feel phantom kisses over your neck and shoulders as you try to calm your trembling enough to mimic what he'd do to you. Slowly, you remove your belt, pressing your palm against your cock as it hardens yet again. You chew your bottom lip momentarily, unbuttoning and unzipping your slacks before shoving them down and, unable to trust your knees to hold yourself up any longer, you fall to your bed, rocking your hips idly against your palm as you feel your breathing deepen.

Your briefs are coated with precome, dry and fresh, and you swear under your breath in both desire and frustration. Your bedroom window is open and the crisp early-autumn breeze blowing in almost feels like a lover's caress. You bite your bottom lip as you touch yourself through your underwear, closing your eyes and tipping your head back against your pillow. If you didn't think, you could almost pretend the object of your desires was looming over you. He probably wouldn't want you to think, anyway. He's probably pretty dominant in bed.

You decide you've had enough of torturing yourself and slide your underwear down, kicking them somewhere across the room. You shudder as the cool air hits your cock, licking your lips as the sudden jerk makes it twitch before you take your length in your hand and stroke slowly. You're already sopping wet with precome. You give yourself a long, slow stroke, from the root to the tip, hissing quietly and bucking your hips into your own hand. Your cock throbs a little and you use your free hand to play with your balls, letting out a quiet curse.

You bring one hand up and suck your fingers momentarily before sliding it between your legs again, further south this time, to brush over your entrance. You shudder and moan quietly, spreading your legs further and feeling your hips rise off the bed slightly of their own volition. One finger slips in, then another, and you let out a soft keening noise and feel your toes curl.

It feels nice, sure, but it's not what you need to really scratch that itch. You groan quietly as ten minutes of it leads to absolutely nothing, and withdraw your fingers from yourself. You take a deep breath and tremble, your cock still standing at attention before you, and think. Fingers aren't gonna be enough.

Then you remember the purchase you'd made, surreptitiously as possible, on a trip to Vegas for a bachelor party. You'd passed it off as a joke when one of your buddies found out, that you were going to give it to your girlfriend. None of them had to know you were going to use it for yourself. Hell, they didn't even know you preferred the company of gentlemen.

You paw around under the bed for a moment before your fingers curl around a piece of silicone. Laying back on your mattress, you feel heat spread through your body as you lazily stroke the length of the toy. It's probably not as incredible as the real thing is, but it's as close as you're gonna get. It's thick and not jaw-droppingly long but impressively so. Practice. It's practice for when you get up enough courage to actually ask him out. Maybe.

You grab the bottle of lotion you keep handy on your nightstand and slick the silicone cock, tracing your fingers over its molded veins and the prominent pinkish head the way you would a real one, preferably the one attached to your co-anchor. If you concentrate hard enough you can almost convince yourself he's knelt in front of you, fingers tangled in your hair as he makes strangled noises of pleasure.

You moan softly as the tip of the dildo presses against your opening. Panting quietly as it breaches you, you hold still and just feel it opening you for a moment. You can practically hear his ragged breaths and feel them ghosting over your ear as he struggles to hold himself still, hot and wet and harsh for you, no one else, just you. You press the toy in deeper and groan, arching your back slightly and pressing your hips down, mirroring the motion you know he'd want.

Your glasses are foggy. It doesn't matter. Not being able to see almost makes it easier to get lost in your fantasy. Slowly, painfully so, because you just know he'd torture you like that, you push the dildo in deeper, deeper, until its balls touch your ass and you tremble. This is exactly what you need. You keep one hand on the dick and put the other on your own length, still slick with your precome, aching and desperate for attention. Your nerves sing as you find a rhythm, pushing the toy in for every downward motion of your hand and pulling it out as you slide your hand up. Perfect. He probably wouldn't let you get off that easy, but you're willing to pretend. This is your fantasy.

His name is on your lips as your motions pick up speed and your hips rock desperately. You need to get off almost more than you need air at the moment. You bite your pillow, back arched and hips lifted from the mattress as tension builds in your stomach and groin. In your brain, through encroaching static, your phantom lover presses his lips to your neck and half-seriously scolds you for trying to muffle yourself. As you adjust your grip on the toy, you alter your angle slightly and drive the head of it into your prostate. Your eyes shoot open and you _howl_.

Your cries and whimpers are wordless except for occasional squeaks of his name and pleas for relief, to let you come. You've completely abandoned your cock now, a hand tangled into the sheets and gripping them white-knuckled, tugging them as you writhe and buck like you've lost control of your body. You feel like you're going insane as you slam the dildo into yourself again and again, hitting your prostate and sending jolts of pleasure through your entire system every single time. Your limbs twitch and shudder as your imagination snakes a tongue up the shell of your ear, and a husky voice whispers for you to come.

Tears prick your eyes and slip down your face as you come harder than you have in recent memory, tense and crying out his name between sobs and gasps of pleasure. Your hips jerk a few times as the white-hot pleasure finally lets go of you, and you sink into your mattress. You're exhausted, you're sated, and you feel like you're made of jelly. You're vaguely aware of the wet warmth that's painted your stomach, but you don't really mind. You lay still for a bit, not entirely willing to move.

Eventually you force yourself to do so, pulling the toy from you and cursing quietly at the sudden empty feeling. You eventually manage to sit up, however slowly, and stand once you're sure your own legs can support you. With a stretch and a satisfying crack of your back, you grab the toy and slowly make your way into the bathroom. A quick shower would clean both you and your silicone buddy. Maybe it'd bring you back to your senses a little bit, too.

By the time you're dry and wrapped in a bathrobe, your eyelids are heavy and you want nothing more than a nap. It's nearly 8 pm, though, and napping now would leave you sleepless for the rest of the night. Not acceptable. Instead, you wander to the living room and settle on the couch once you've placed the dildo in its proper spot, stroking the cat when he hops into your lap and purrs happily.

You're alright for now, but you know the process is going to start all over again in the morning when he walks past you with his cup of black coffee and a donut with chocolate frosting and says good morning. It'll start all over again at the AM news desk when he's so close you can smell him and if you let your mind wander you know all you'll be able to think about is his hands on you and his lips on yours and his dick inside you.

It's a good thing you get off on being denied like this. Otherwise, not having the balls to ask him out might drive you crazy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Out of Your Depth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856952) by [BlossomTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomTime/pseuds/BlossomTime)




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